The Diary of a Young Girl

By Anne Frank

Among the most powerful accounts of the Nazi occupation, "The Diary of Anne Frank" chronicles the life of Anne Frank, a thirteen-year old girl fleeing her home in Amsterdam to go into hiding. Anne reveals the relationships between eight people living under miserable conditions: facing hunger, threat of discovery and the worst horrors the modern world had seen. In these pages, she grows up to be a young woman and a wise observer of human nature. She shares an unparalleled bond with her diary, which holds a detailed account of Anne's close relationship with her father, the lack of daughterly love for her mother, admiration for her sister's intelligence and closeness with her friend Peter. Anne Frank's account offers a compelling self-portrait of a sensitive and spirited young woman who turns thoughtful and learns of the many terrors of the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bibliotheka
• Release date: Sep 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9789897786112

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June 12, 1942

I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, as I have never been able to confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and support.

COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE ON SEPTEMBER 28, 1942:

So far you truly have been a great source of comfort to me, and so has Kitty, whom I now write to regularly. This way of keeping a diary is much nicer, and now I can hardly wait for those moments when I’m able to write in you. Oh, I’m so glad I brought you along!

Sunday, June 14, 1942

I’ll begin from the moment I got you, the moment I saw you lying on the table among my other birthday presents. (I went along when you were bought, but that doesn’t count.)

On Friday, June 12, I was awake at six o’clock, which isn’t surprising, since it was my birthday. But I’m not allowed to get up at that hour, so I had to control my curiosity until quarter to seven. When I couldn’t wait any longer, I went to the dining room, where Moortje (the cat) welcomed me by rubbing against my legs.

A little after seven I went to Daddy and Mama and then to the living room to open my presents, and you were the first thing I saw, maybe one of my nicest presents.

Then a bouquet of roses, some peonies and a potted plant. From Daddy and Mama I got a blue blouse, a game, a bottle of grape juice, which to my mind tastes a bit like wine (after all, wine is made from grapes), a puzzle, a jar of cold cream, 2.50 guilders and a gift certificate for two books. I got another book as well, Camera Obscura (but Margot already has it, so I exchanged mine for something else), a platter of homemade cookies (which I made myself, of course, since I’ve become quite an expert at baking cookies), lots of candy and a strawberry tart from Mother. And a letter from Grammy, right on time, but of course that was just a coincidence.

Then Hanneli came to pick me up, and we went to school. During recess I passed out cookies to my teachers and my class, and then it was time to get back to work. I didn’t arrive home until five, since I went to gym with the rest of the class. (I’m not allowed to take part because my shoulders and hips tend to get dislocated.) As it was my birthday, I got to decide which game my classmates would play, and I chose volleyball. Afterward they all danced around me in a circle and sang Happy Birthday. When I got home, Sanne Ledermann was already there. Ilse Wagner, Hanneli Goslar and Jacqueline van Maarsen came home with me after gym, since we’re in the same class. Hanneli and Sanne used to be my two best friends. People who saw us together used to say, There goes Anne, Hanne and Sanne. I only met Jacqueline van Maarsen when I started at the Jewish Lyceum, and now she’s my best friend. Ilse is Hanneli’s best friend, and Sanne goes to another school and has friends there.

They gave me a beautiful book, Dutch Sagas and Legends, but they gave me Volume II by mistake, so I exchanged two other books for Volume I. Aunt Helene brought me a puzzle, Aunt Stephanie a darling brooch and Aunt Leny a terrific book: Daisy Goes to the Mountains.

This morning I lay in the bathtub thinking how wonderful it would be if I had a dog like Rin Tin Tin. I’d call him Rin Tin Tin too, and I’d take him to school with me, where he could stay in the janitor’s room or by the bicycle racks when the weather was good.

Monday, June 15, 1942

I had my birthday party on Sunday afternoon. The Rin Tin Tin movie was a big hit with my classmates. I got two brooches, a bookmark and two books. I’ll start by saying a few things about my school and my class, beginning with the students.

Betty Bloemendaal looks kind of poor, and I think she probably is. She lives on some obscure street in West Amsterdam, and none of us know where it is. She does very well at school, but that’s because she works so hard, not because she’s so smart. She’s pretty quiet.

Jacqueline van Maarsen is supposedly my best friend, but I’ve never had a real friend. At first I thought Jacque would be one, but I was badly mistaken.

D. Q.* [*Initials have been assigned at random to those persons who prefer to remain anonymous.] is a very nervous girl who’s always forgetting things, so the teachers keep assigning her extra homework as punishment. She’s very kind, especially to G. Z.

E. S. talks so much it isn’t funny. She’s always touching your hair or fiddling with your buttons when she asks you something. They say she can’t stand me, but I don’t care, since I don’t like her much either.

Henny Mets is a nice girl with a cheerful disposition, except that she talks in a loud voice and is really childish when we’re playing outdoors. Unfortunately, Henny has a girlfriend named Beppy who’s a bad influence on her because she’s dirty and vulgar.

J.R. — I could write a whole book about her. J. is a detestable, sneaky, stuck-up, two-faced gossip who thinks she’s so grown-up. She’s really got Jacque under her spell, and that’s a shame. J. is easily offended, bursts into tears at the slightest thing and, to top it all off, is a terrible show-off. Miss J. always has to be right. She’s very rich, and has a closet full of the most adorable dresses that are way too old for her. She thinks she’s gorgeous, but she’s not. J. and I can’t stand each other.

Ilse Wagner is a nice girl with a cheerful disposition, but she’s extremely finicky and can spend hours moaning and groaning about something. Ilse likes me a lot. She’s very smart, but lazy.

Hanneli Goslar, or Lies as she’s called at school, is a bit on the strange side. She’s usually shy — outspoken at home, but reserved around other people. She blabs whatever you tell her to her mother. But she says what she thinks, and lately I’ve come to appreciate her a great deal.

Nannie van Praag-Sigaar is small, funny and sensible. I think she’s nice. She’s pretty smart. There isn’t much else you can say about Nannie. Eefje de Jong is, in my opinion, terrific. Though she’s only twelve, she’s quite the lady. She acts as if I were a baby. She’s also very helpful, and I like her.

G. Z. is the prettiest girl in our class. She has a nice face, but is kind of dumb. I think they’re going to hold her back a year, but of course I haven’t told her that.

COMMENT ADDED BY ANNE AT A LATER DATE:

To my great surprise, G. Z. wasn’t held back a year after all.

And sitting next to G.Z. is the last of us twelve girls, me.

There’s a lot to be said about the boys, or maybe not so much after all.

Maurice Coster is one of my many admirers, but pretty much of a pest.

Sallie Springer has a filthy mind, and rumor has it that he’s gone all the way. Still, I think he’s terrific, because he’s very funny.

Emiel Bonewit is G.Z.’s admirer, but she doesn’t care. He’s pretty boring.

Rob Cohen used to be in love with me too, but I can’t stand him anymore. He’s an obnoxious, two-faced, lying, sniveling little goof who has an awfully high opinion of himself.

Max van de Velde is a farm boy from Medemblik, but eminently suitable, as Margot would say.

Herman Koopman also has a filthy mind, just like Jopie de Beer, who’s a terrible flirt and absolutely girl-crazy.

Leo Blom is Jopie de Beer’s best friend, but has been ruined by his dirty mind.

Albert de Mesquita came from the Montessori School and skipped a grade. He’s really smart.

Leo Slager came from the same school, but isn’t as smart.

Ru Stoppelmon is a short, goofy boy from Almelo who transferred to this school in the middle of the year.

C. N. does whatever he’s not supposed to.

Jacques Kocernoot sits behind us, next to C., and we (G. and I) laugh ourselves silly.

Harry Schaap is the most decent boy in our class. He’s nice.

Werner Joseph is nice too, but all the changes taking place lately have made him too quiet, so he seems boring.

Sam Salomon is one of those tough guys from across the tracks. A real brat. (Admirer!)

Appie Riem is pretty Orthodox, but a brat too.

Saturday, June 20, 1942

Writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me. Not only because I’ve never written anything before, but also because it seems to me that later on neither I nor anyone else will be interested in the musings of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I feel like writing, and I have an even greater need to get all kinds of things off my chest.

Paper has more patience than people. I thought of this saying on one of those days when I was feeling a little depressed and was sitting at home with my chin in my hands, bored and listless, wondering whether to stay in or go out. I finally stayed where I was, brooding. Yes, paper does have more patience, and since I’m not planning to let anyone else read this stiff-backed notebook grandly referred to as a diary, unless I should ever find a real friend, it probably won’t make a bit of difference.

Now I’m back to the point that prompted me to keep a diary in the first place: I don’t have a friend.

Let me put it more clearly, since no one will believe that a thirteen year-old girl is completely alone in the world. And I’m not. I have loving parents and a sixteen-year-old sister, and there are about thirty people I can call friends. I have a throng of admirers who can’t keep their adoring eyes off me and who sometimes have to resort to using a broken pocket mirror to try and catch a glimpse of me in the classroom. I have a family, loving aunts and a good home. No, on the surface I seem to have everything, except my one true friend. All I think about when I’m with friends is having a good time. I can’t bring myself to talk about anything but ordinary everyday things. We don’t seem to be able to get any closer, and that’s the problem. Maybe it’s my fault that we don’t confide in each other. In any case, that’s just how things are, and unfortunately they’re not liable to change. This is why I’ve started the diary.

To enhance the image of this long-awaited friend in my imagination, I don’t want to jot down the facts in this diary the way most people would do, but I want the diary to be my friend, and I’m going to call this friend Kitty.

Since no one would understand a word of my stories to Kitty if I were to plunge right in, I’d better provide a brief sketch of my life, much as I dislike doing so.

My father, the most adorable father I’ve ever seen, didn’t marry my mother until he was thirty-six and she was twenty-five. My sister Margot was born in Frankfurt am Main in Germany in 1926. I was born on June 12, 1929. I lived in Frankfurt until I was four. Because we’re Jewish, my father immigrated to Holland in 1933, when he became the Managing Director of the Dutch Opekta Company, which manufactures products used in making jam. My mother, Edith Hollander Frank, went with him to Holland in September, while Margot and I were sent to Aachen to stay with our grandmother. Margot went to Holland in December, and I followed in February, when I was plunked down on the table as a birthday present for Margot.

I started right away at the Montessori nursery school. I stayed there until I was six, at which time I started first grade. In sixth grade my teacher was Mrs. Kuperus, the principal. At the end of the year we were both in tears as we said a heartbreaking farewell, because I’d been accepted at the Jewish Lyceum, where Margot also went to school.

Our lives were not without anxiety, since our relatives in Germany were suffering under Hitler’s anti-Jewish laws. After the pogroms in 1938 my two uncles (my mother’s brothers) fled Germany, finding safe refuge in North America. My elderly grandmother came to live with us. She was seventy-three years old at the time.

After May 1940 the good times were few and far between: first there was the war, then the capitulation and then the arrival of the Germans, which is when the trouble started for the Jews. Our freedom was severely restricted by a series of anti-Jewish decrees: Jews were required to wear a yellow star; Jews were required to turn in their bicycles; Jews were forbidden to use street-cars; Jews were forbidden to ride in cars, even their own; Jews were required to do their shopping between 3 and 5 P.M.; Jews were required to frequent only Jewish-owned barbershops and beauty parlors; Jews were forbidden to be out on the streets between 8 P.M. and 6 A.M.; Jews were forbidden to attend theaters, movies or any other forms of entertainment; Jews were forbidden to use swimming pools, tennis courts, hockey fields or any other athletic fields; Jews were forbidden to go rowing; Jews were forbidden to take part in any athletic activity in public; Jews were forbidden to sit in their gardens or those of their friends after 8 P.M.; Jews were forbidden to visit Christians in their homes; Jews were required to attend Jewish schools, etc. You couldn’t do this and you couldn’t do that, but life went on. Jacque always said to me, I don’t dare do anything anymore, ‘cause I’m afraid it’s not allowed.

In the summer of 1941 Grandma got sick and had to have an operation, so my birthday passed with little celebration. In the summer of 1940 we didn’t do much for my birthday either, since the fighting had just ended in Holland. Grandma died in January 1942. No one knows how often I think of her and still love her. This birthday celebration in 1942 was intended to make up for the others, and Grandma’s candle was lit along with the rest.

The four of us are still doing well, and that brings me to the present date of June 20, 1942, and the solemn dedication of my diary.

Saturday, June 20, 1942

Dearest Kitty!

Let me get started right away; it’s nice and quiet now. Father and Mother are out and Margot has gone to play Ping-Pong with some other young people at her friend Trees’s. I’ve been playing a lot of Ping-Pong myself lately. So much that five of us girls have formed a club. It’s called The Little Dipper Minus Two. A really silly name, but it’s based on a mistake. We wanted to give our club a special name; and because there were five of us, we came up with the idea of the Little Dipper. We thought it consisted of five stars, but we turned out to be wrong. It has seven, like the Big Dipper, which explains the Minus Two. Ilse Wagner has a Ping-Pong set, and the Wagners let us play in their big dining room whenever we want. Since we five Ping-Pong players like ice cream, especially in the summer, and since you get hot playing Ping-Pong, our games usually end with a visit to the nearest ice-cream parlor that allows Jews: either Oasis or Delphi. We’ve long since stopped hunting around for our purses or money — most of the time it’s so busy in Oasis that we manage to find a few generous young men of our acquaintance or an admirer to offer us more ice cream than we could eat in a week.

You’re probably a little surprised to hear me talking about admirers at such a tender age. Unfortunately, or not, as the case may be, this vice seems to be rampant at our school. As soon as a boy asks if he can bicycle home with me and we get to talking, nine times out of ten I can be sure he’ll become enamored on the spot and won’t let me out of his sight for a second. His ardor eventually cools, especially since I ignore his passionate glances and pedal blithely on my way. If it gets so bad that they start rambling on about asking Father’s permission, I swerve slightly on my bike, my schoolbag falls, and the young man feels obliged to get off his bike and hand me the bag, by which time I’ve switched the conversation to another topic. These are the most innocent types. Of course, there are those who blow you kisses or try to take hold of your arm, but they’re definitely knocking on the wrong door. I get off my bike and either refuse to make further use of their company or act as if I’m insulted and tell them in no uncertain terms to go on home without me. There you are. We’ve now laid the basis for our friendship. Until tomorrow.

Yours,

Anne

Sunday, June 21, 1942

Dearest Kitty,

Our entire class is quaking in its boots. The reason, of course, is the upcoming meeting in which the teachers decide who’ll be promoted to the next grade and who’ll be kept back. Half the class is making bets. G.Z. and I laugh ourselves sick at the two boys behind us, C.N. and Jacques Kocernoot, who have staked their entire vacation savings on their bet. From morning to night, it’s You’re going to pass, No, I’m not, Yes, you are, No, I’m not. Even G.’s pleading glances and my angry outbursts can’t calm them down. If you ask me, there are so many dummies that about a quarter of the class should be kept back, but teachers are the most unpredictable creatures on earth. Maybe this time they’ll be unpredictable in the right direction for a change. I’m not so worried about my girlfriends and myself.

We’ll make it. The only subject I’m not sure about is math. Anyway, all we can do is wait. Until then, we keep telling each other not to lose heart.

I get along pretty well with all my teachers. There are nine of them, seven men and two women. Mr. Keesing, the old fogey who teaches math, was mad at me for the longest time because I talked so much. After several warnings, he assigned me extra homework. An essay on the subject A Chatterbox. A chatterbox, what can you write about that? I’d worry about that later, I decided. I jotted down the assignment in my notebook, tucked it in my bag and tried to keep quiet.

That evening, after I’d finished the rest of my homework, the note about the essay caught my eye. I began thinking about the subject while chewing the tip of my fountain pen. Anyone could ramble on and leave big spaces between the words, but the trick was to come up with convincing arguments to prove the necessity of talking. I thought and thought, and suddenly I had an idea. I wrote the three pages Mr. Keesing had assigned me and was satisfied. I argued that talking is a female trait and that I would do my best to keep it under control, but that I would never be able to break myself of the habit, since my mother talked as much as I did, if not more, and that there’s not much you can do about inherited traits.

Mr. Keesing had a good laugh at my arguments, but when I proceeded to talk my way through the next class, he assigned me a second essay. This time it was supposed to be on An Incorrigible Chatterbox. I handed it in, and Mr. Keesing had nothing to complain about for two whole classes. However, during the third class he’d finally had enough. Anne Frank, as punishment for talking in class, write an essay entitled ‘Quack, Quack, Quack,’ said Mistress Chatterback.’

The class roared. I had to laugh too, though I’d nearly exhausted my ingenuity on the topic of chatterboxes. It was time to come up with something else, something original. My friend Sanne, who’s good at poetry, offered to help me write the essay from beginning to end in verse. I jumped for joy. Keesing was trying to play a joke on me with this ridiculous subject, but I’d make sure the joke was on him. I finished my poem, and it was beautiful! It was about a mother duck and a father swan with three baby ducklings who were bitten to death by the father because they quacked too much. Luckily, Keesing took the joke the right way. He read the poem to the class, adding his own comments, and to several other classes as well. Since then I’ve been allowed to talk and haven’t been assigned any extra homework. On the contrary, Keesing’s always making jokes these days.

Yours,

Anne

Wednesday, June 24, 1942

Dearest Kitty,

It’s sweltering. Everyone is huffing and puffing, and in this heat I have to walk everywhere. Only now do I realize how pleasant a streetcar is, but we Jews are no longer allowed to make use of this luxury; our own two feet are good enough for us. Yesterday at lunchtime I had an appointment with the dentist on Jan Luykenstraat. It’s a long way from our school on Stadstimmertuinen. That afternoon I nearly fell asleep at my desk. Fortunately, people automatically offer you something to drink. The dental assistant is really kind.

The only mode of transportation left to us is the ferry. The ferryman at Josef Israelkade took us across when we asked him to. It’s not the fault of the Dutch that we Jews are having such a bad time.

I wish I didn’t have to go to school. My bike was stolen during Easter vacation, and Father gave Mother’s bike to some Christian friends for safekeeping. Thank goodness summer vacation is almost here; one more week and our torment will be over.

Something unexpected happened yesterday morning. As I was passing the bicycle racks, I heard my name being called. I turned around and there was the nice boy I’d met the evening before at my friend Wilma’s. He’s Wilma’s second cousin. I used to think Wilma was nice, which she is, but all she ever talks about is boys, and that gets to be a bore. He came toward me, somewhat shyly, and introduced himself as Hello Silberberg. I was a little surprised and wasn’t sure what he wanted, but it didn’t take me long to find out. He asked if I would allow him to accompany me to school. As long as you’re headed that way, I’ll go with you, I said. And so we walked together. Hello is sixteen and good at telling all kinds of funny stories.

He was waiting for me again this morning, and I expect he will be from now on.

Anne

Wednesday, July 1, 1942

Dearest Kitty,

Until today I honestly couldn’t find the time to write you. I was with friends all day Thursday, we had company on Friday, and that’s how it went until today.

Hello and I have gotten to know each other very well this past week, and he’s told me a lot about his life. He comes from Gelsenkirchen and is living with his grandparents. His parents are in Belgium, but there’s no way he can get there. Hello used to have a girlfriend named Ursula. I know her too. She’s perfectly sweet and perfectly boring. Ever since he met me, Hello has realized that he’s been falling asleep at Ursul’s side. So I’m kind of a pep tonic. You never know what you’re good for!

Jacque spent Saturday night here. Sunday afternoon she was at Hanneli’s, and I was bored stiff.

Hello was supposed to come over that evening, but he called around six. I answered the phone, and he said, This is Helmuth Silberberg. May I please speak to Anne?

Oh, Hello. This is Anne.

Oh, hi, Anne. How are you?

Fine, thanks.

I just wanted to say I’m sorry but I can’t come tonight, though I would like to have a word with you. Is it all right if I come by and pick you up in about ten minutes.

Yes, that’s fine. Bye-bye!

Okay, I’ll be right over. Bye-bye!

I hung up, quickly changed my clothes and fixed my hair. I was so nervous I leaned out the window to watch for him. He finally showed up. Miracle of miracles, I didn’t rush down the stairs, but waited quietly until he rang the bell. I went down to open the door, and he got right to the point.

Anne, my grandmother thinks you’re too young for me to be seeing you on a regular basis. She says I should be going to the Lowenbachs’, but you probably know that I’m not going out with Ursul anymore.

No, I didn’t know. What happened? Did you two have a fight?

"No, nothing like that. I told Ursul that we weren’t suited to each other and so it was better for us not to go together anymore, but that she was welcome at my house and I hoped I would be welcome at hers. Actually, I thought Ursul was hanging around with another boy, and I treated her as if she were. But that wasn’t true. And then my uncle said I should apologize to her, but of course I didn’t feel like it, and that’s why I broke up with her. But that was just one of the reasons.

Now my grandmother wants me to see Ursul and not you, but I don’t agree and I’m not going to. Sometimes old people have really old-fashioned ideas, but that doesn’t mean I have to go along with them. I need my grandparents, but in a certain sense they need me too. From now on I’ll be free on Wednesday evenings. You see, my grandparents made me sign up for a wood-carving class, but actually I go to a club organized by the Zionists. My grandparents don’t want me to go, because they’re anti-Zionists. I’m not a fanatic Zionist, but it interests me. Anyway, it’s been such a mess lately that I’m planning to quit. So next Wednesday will be my last meeting. That means I can see you Wednesday evening, Saturday afternoon, Saturday evening, Sunday afternoon and maybe even more.

But if your grandparents don’t want you to, you? shouldn’t go behind their backs.

All’s fair in love and war.

Just then we passed Blankevoort’s Bookstore and there was Peter Schiff with two other boys; it was the first time he’d said hello to me in ages, and it really made me feel good.

Monday evening Hello came over to meet Father and Mother. I had bought a cake and some candy, and we had tea and cookies, the works, but neither Hello nor I felt like sitting stiffly on our chairs. So we went out for a walk, and he didn’t deliver me to my door until ten past eight. Father was furious. He said it was very wrong of me not to get home on time. I had to promise to be home by ten to eight in the future. I’ve been asked to Hello’s on Saturday.

Wilma told me that one night when Hello was at her house, she asked him, Who do you like best, Ursul or Anne?

He said, It’s none of your business.

But as he was leaving (they hadn’t talked to each other the rest of the evening), he said, Well, I like Anne better, but don’t tell anyone. Bye! And whoosh... he was out the door.

In everything he says or does, I can see that Hello is in love with me, and it’s kind of nice for a change. Margot would say that Hello is eminently suitable. I think so too, but he’s more than that. Mother is also full of praise: A good-looking boy. Nice and polite. I’m glad he’s so popular with everyone. Except with my girlfriends. He thinks they’re very childish, and he’s right about that. Jacque still teases me about him, but I’m not in love with him. Not really. It’s all right for me to have boys as friends. Nobody minds.

Mother is always asking me who I’m going to marry when I grow up, but I bet she’ll never guess it’s Peter, because I talked her out of that idea myself, without batting an eyelash. I love Peter as I’ve never loved anyone, and I tell myself he’s only going around with all those other girls to hide his feelings for me. Maybe he thinks Hello and I are in love with each other, which we’re not. He’s just a friend, or as Mother puts it, a beau.

Yours,

Anne

Sunday, July 5, 1942

Dear Kitty,

The graduation ceremony in the Jewish Theater on Friday went as expected. My report card wasn’t too bad. I got one D, a C- in algebra and all the rest B’s, except for two B+’s and two B-’s. My parents are pleased, but they’re not like other parents when it comes to grades. They never worry about report cards, good or bad. As long as I’m healthy and happy and don’t talk back too much, they’re satisfied. If these three things are all right, everything else will take care of itself.

I’m just the opposite. I don’t want to be a poor student. I was accepted to the Jewish Lyceum on a conditional basis. I was supposed to stay in the seventh grade at the Montessori School, but when Jewish children were required to go to Jewish schools, Mr. Elte finally agreed, after a great deal of persuasion, to accept Lies Goslar and me. Lies also passed this year, though she has to repeat her geometry exam.

Poor Lies.